Chapter 19
SET FACEOFF PLAY: A REHEARSED PLAY FOLLOWING A FACEOFF WIN
Completing my homework assignment for Dr. Halvorsen wipes me out. I decide to go to bed early. It’s not long before my dream starts the way they all do as of late—back on the ice.
In full uniform, the roar of the crowd vibrates through my blades. The boards whisper when I lean into them as if they’re in cahoots with me. Promising me accolades—accolades which I’ve been taught means acknowledgement.
My jersey has my name stitched across the shoulders. It’s an identity I never questioned. The clock looming overhead from the ice ticks down, red numbers burning into my peripheral vision. I feel the trickle of sweat run down my back.
That’s when I become aware of my setting. It’s a replay of my last game. I know it, yet I don’t fear what’s coming. Just certainty.
Same arena. Same opponent—the Mystic Mariners. Same arrogance as the puck drops. My stride is effortless. Powerful. Controlled.
I am exactly who I was supposed to be.
Then things change. The hit that ended my entire career never comes.
There’s contact—of course there is—but this time, it bounces off. I trip, on what I’m not certain. The Mariner player slaps a hand to my shoulder to keep me upright instead of checking me into a skull-rattling blow.
The whistle blows loudly, but I can’t understand why. It wasn’t his fault.
Confused, I skate to the boards to reorient myself and wait. My vision never wanes. The world doesn’t tilt. I stand upright, alive inside my body instead of trapped somewhere behind the darkness.
The refs make a call. The hit was called a throw from behind—a different Mariner player.
“Penalty shot. Kings.” The ref points at me.
The crowd explodes in excitement. I feel it bloom in my chest—this feral, intoxicating certainty that this moment belongs to me. My teammates slap my helmet, my gloves. Someone shouts my name. Someone always does. I speak this language fluidly—it’s the only thing I truly understand.
I skate to center ice. That’s when I notice something’s wrong.
There are two nets at the far end.
Side by side. Perfectly aligned. Same red piping. Same white mesh. Same blue paint in the crease.
But I’m not facing the Mariner’s goalies. One is ours. My goalie. Masked, squared up, familiar in the way teammates become extensions of your own body. If I shoot on him, if I score there, it’s clean. Technical. Safe. A betrayal only in theory, not in feeling. Control wrapped in muscle memory.
The other net is empty.
No, not empty.
Amy stands in front of it.
No pads. No mask. Just her, in street clothes, skates somehow on her feet, hair pulled back the way she does when she’s bracing herself for something difficult. She doesn’t crouch. She doesn’t raise her voice but it carries across the arena. “No lies anymore. What are you going to do?”
The crowd goes silent. The impossible kind like someone’s been injured on the ice. I try to speak, but my throat locks. My hands tighten around my stick instead.
The ref skates up beside me. His voice is oddly gentle.
“You only get one shot. Choose.”
I nod.
The puck is slid to me, and the weight of it as I slide it back and forth in front of my stick feels different than it ever has before. Heavier, as if it’s carrying more than rubber and history.
I glance at the first net. I know exactly how to beat my goalie. Five-hole if he shifts his weight. High blocker if he doesn’t. There’s a geometry to it, a certainty. I can already see the puck crossing the line. Already feel the satisfaction of execution.
This is control.
Hockey never asked me to explain myself. Never asked me to be compassionate. Never asked what happened when I failed someone I loved. Hockey never needed apologies. Just performance.
I look at Amy. She hasn’t moved. Her eyes don’t try to challenge me. They assume I’m going to keep my allegiance where it’s always belonged—to something other than her.
She doesn’t accuse me. That almost makes it worse.
And suddenly I understand the cruel elegance of my own mind. One net gives me everything I was trained to value. Precision. Applause. Validation. A life where I already know the rules.
The other offers nothing I can predict.
If I shoot at Amy’s net, I don’t even know what taking the shot means. There’s no guarantee the puck goes in. No promise she stays afterward. There’s only potential—the terrifying kind that can grow into something breathtaking or burn your hands when you reach for it.
I push off, slow and deliberate.
The puck glides with me.
My heart isn’t racing. It’s heavy. Like it finally understands what it’s been carrying all these years.
I angle toward the first net.
The familiar one.
My goalie drops into position, reading my hips the way he always has. This is our dance. I could do it with my eyes closed.
Despite the swoosh of my blades, I hear Amy’s exhale. It’s resigned, but it lands on me harder than the roar ever could.
I stop on a dime. The puck slides forward another inch, momentum begging me to finish what I started.
I pivot.
The ice between me and the net Amy’s guarding feels insurmountable. Like I have to cross something more than distance to get there.
She doesn’t flinch as I review the play. She maintains the same walls.
I wish she’d make it easier by looking afraid or angry or certain. But she just stands there, hands loose at her sides, eyes steady.
“I won’t budge,” she says. Her voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. “But you have to earn this.”
I line up the shot.
My hands are shaking now, and it’s unfamiliar, almost laughable. I’ve played through pain, through fear, through entire seasons fueled by rage and stubbornness. But this—this feels like stripping down in front of a full arena and trusting no one throws anything sharp.
Then I shoot.
The puck leaves my stick too softly. Not the way a coach would want. Not the way a highlight reel would remember.
It slides.
Slow. Honest. Vulnerable.
It passes Amy’s skates and kisses the inside of the post before crossing the line.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then she says, “I’ll be waiting,” right before she departs the ice.
I don’t feel triumphant. Nor relieved. I’m panting, knowing I have the hardest training ahead of me.
I wake up with my heart pounding, sheets twisted around my legs, breath uneven.
For once, the dream doesn’t hurt.
It solidifies my choice.